A Feint Intervention
by shihx
Summary: Another night, another Organization mission. For the prize of Anokata's trust upon its succession, Bourbon, chosen lead operative, was determined to seal the execution. But his archrival, Rye, shadowed his pursuit by being his backup; having the chance to steal his momentum shall he make any slightest error. With Gin, Vermouth, and Sherry watching, who would win? Update:NowComplete
1. Daybreak

_**This story is a direct continuation of my previous story, Dog Days.**_

_**Might contain spoiler.**_

* * *

**Dreaming in Scarlet**

Sun rays had just begun filling the empty space between the blinds by the room inside a laboratory building in the outskirts of Tokyo. Skipped by its beam was a bed lying side to side with the wall where the window was attached, but its occupant could still sneak glimpse on the twinkling light the window glass let through.

The morning started shadily, and in serene. The only sound that was by chance audible was a reverberation of heavy breathing, there, from the bed.

The sound, so delicate yet heartrending, was manufactured by a figure of a lady lying on her stomach. Nothing was on her except a red satin fabric swaddling half of her trunk down to half of her thighs. There might be traces of perspiration all over her, but it wouldn't hinder you to see through her gleaming crystal skin. It was an alluring vista. And it really was, probably until you spotted her left hand gripping on the edge of the fabric. Trembling, like the rest of her body.

And when you escalated your gaze up to her dilated eyes, you would find her mydriatic pupils detrimental enough to pierce a wound to your core.

The sound of two solid objects colliding was then the only other noise during that moment, coming from an empty glass being put down on a thick acrylic table, just across the bed. The lady's company—whose silvery hair would have been stroked with the sun ray had the blind been more generously open—had just, albeit early, finished his favorite glass of wine. Eyeing its source bottle by the glass, he wondered if its taste was even a suitable one for his penchant; it was probably sweeter, dryer, and less strong.

But there was something beyond his grasp about the liqueur that had him so attached; something that resulted in his constant craving. Something that would make the pursuit of savoring even just a sip of it a focal priority of his. And this attachment had lasted for years. Maybe, he thought, since Stockholm, where he first met that woman in bed, now his main object of vision.

The gasps, the wincing air on her face, the flaxen hair he took a special fondness of, the whole picture only told him one truth. And he hated to acknowledge it.

Rather than _pleasure_, it was _agony_ that was inside her.

* * *

**The Little Favor**

"_You could have said no,_"

The head of research development was deep in her thought before that question snapped her daydreaming.

"Huh?"

"You could have said no, if you don't like it. She said she could make you something else if you want,"

The man sitting in front of her had sacrificed a sum of his pride delivering the package his lover sent through him for her sister. He was a prided marksman after all—not a post officer. Yet he didn't feel the addressed recipient was grateful enough, for either his service or her sister's charity. "Instead you just sit there in silence and play princess."

Shiho had not had a chance to even open the bento box she found on her desk this morning, but from the smell she could tell it was something chocolaty; just as expected from Akemi to gift her little things she knew Shiho would love amidst the amok of her workload.

"Please tell her I loved it. I will meet her as soon as possible." Shiho didn't quite lie—she knew she would love whatever kind of compassion her sister was to shower her with. And she would have met her every day, if she hadn't had to over-labor herself into the project she had been getting so close to fruition with, in a laboratory out of town. "And thanks to you too, troubling yourself to get here to the lab,"

At the same time, Moroboshi Dai wouldn't be at the lab fetching Shiho her little present if he hadn't had to obtain the instruments he needed for the day's operation. He wouldn't spend the lunchtime there if he didn't find the M4 working erratically and was forced to wait for a replacement.

After quickly reminded that the weapon lab was just underground, Shiho had become aware of this fact. She shrouded from the thought that someone was going to die that night, again.

But then she remembered the last time she was with this specific operator of the org, when he was supposed to have someone executed, he made nothing less than a scar that would be healed in less than a month. She remembered her being the only one witnessing his true allegiance float in the air of trepidation.

That was the first time a wave of doubt had a relieving effect on her.

However, the closest thing to a confrontation was her upcoming question to him: "Is someone going to die tonight?"

The agent under the code name Rye wasn't even sure. It was not his mission in some way, but the role he would take in the operation would be a leap of progress to his mission. His _real_ mission, to be exact. But he hadn't got a call from his _real_ colleagues that assured whether the target chose to cooperate with their plan or chose to stand alone in the fight against the villains.

"Not my fight," He shrugged coldly. "I'm just a backup plan."

* * *

In fact, the lead executor for the night's operation was strolling attentively around the execution site—a nine level building in Chiyoda serving as a headquarter of Japan's leading newspaper agency—examining each inch of its walls, scrutinizing each object on its each hallway, tattooing each faces he encountered in his head, and calculating the tiniest possible interference to the plan. It was the 187 anniversary of the company, and everyone was preparing for the celebration elsewhere in the night.

It was only appropriate that one man, so ambitious in his pursuit of discovering the dark traces of one specific illicit establishment the executor was a part of, would be the one amongst few who would stay overnight at his company and continue his hopeless work in his hope of a great revelation. He might have in his hand one arguably strong hint on the organization's malevolence, but little did he know that the organization _did_ have in their hand one arguably core aspect as to with which he could accomplish that ambition of his: _his life_.


	2. Post Meridiem

_**!Might contain spoiler from File: 897!**_

_***Does* contain adult themes :P**_

* * *

**Bourbon**

Bourbon was the latest addition to the top operator of the organization, only a year away from Rye's ascendance into the same rank. After discovering his talent and taking him in during his younger days, the organization sent him to learn to be their ultimate secret weapon. In the man then the higher ups found incredible revenue; be it in his bull eye analysis or his tactful mission executions, he didn't cease to put the rest of the members in amazement. Of course it wasn't as sugary as described, but the organization's trust in him was actually increasing in trend—as well as the number of murder missions he had to carry out.

And of course, naturally, he resented killing people, but it wasn't like he _could_ do any otherwise.

As of tonight, he would have to prove to the Boss that his allegiance was indeed proven worthy. But it didn't easily become rather an obsession to him just because of that, since every minute he settled in the organization he _had_ to prove himself worthy. It was Gin's announcement that soon rocketed his drive; that if he managed to pull it off successfully, he would get to take part in a mission even _Anokata_ himself would have a handle on.

He couldn't wait for his _own_ mission to reach its triumph.

That, if he—and only _he_—was the one who carry it out. And not anyone else; especially that bastard Rye who would be shadowing his pursuit as a backup.

Furuya Rei believed he would instantly be placed into the top position when he came back from his education. And he actually would, hadn't there been a new talent they judged to have outshone even the much anticipated wunderkind. Rye was a rival Bourbon didn't see coming, and with whom he couldn't easily resolve into winning. Since Rye's many leads during operations Bourbon should have handed with, his influence in the organization began decaying, and his plans had gone awry. And while Bourbon had his suspicions of the man's background, there wasn't anything he could actually come up with. It was not until his latest critical hits that Bourbon manage to climb the ladder back up, albeit staggeringly. It had costed him enough frustration to have the competition stamped on his mind.

And when he heard Rye was sent as his backup in this mission, he knew the antagonism had just reached its peak. He knew exactly that it was either him or the scamp that was going to be sent for the Boss' mission; it sort of served as the price of the competition. Heck; had Gin not had some sort of issues he knew nothing about—_and took no interest in_—it would have unquestionably been Rye donning the scheme. And _no_, he can't let him win this over.

Bourbon finished re-scanning the execution field—the last stage of preparation for the mission—by the time his watch showed five p.m. He took out his phone and dialed a number.

"Bourbon here. I'm clear."

The voice by the other edge of the phone accepted his status, and proceeded to give him a piece of information vital to the succession his mission then. That information was supposed to be a dire one, but he couldn't help but wanting to throw tantrum—a jovial one—into hearing it. He was trying to confirm what he had heard when the voice assured him that he got it perfectly right. Their last conversational exchange was when the voice asked whether he needed one thing in particular.

"No, don't send Korn either. I'll be fine on my own,"

What the voice said afterwards he didn't give a single care. He dropped off the call and with that, a wide grin formed in his face.

Due to technical problem, his planned backup would _not_ be able to present during the mission.

* * *

**Bad Romance**

It was rather bizarre to see the view on that evening. Gin, the lead executive of the organization, the mastermind of visibly all evil going on within it, was seen sitting alone on a hotel room desk chair—his eyes set on the screen in front of him. But then again, the oddest thing might have just been the absence of his trusted underling Vodka around him, since it made total sense that what he intensely watched was the output of a surveillance camera from a room in the building just across the hotel. The man under his observation was seen not too diverse than what himself was doing; working intensely on the computer in front of him.

"_Cut it out, Gin,_"

The playful—almost flirtatious—banter was coming from the woman standing in front of the room's bath, her hand busy stroking a towel on her wet hair.

"He's the best kid around. Why don't we give him the trust he deserves?" She made a knot with the towel on her head and walked toward the chair Gin was sitting on. She put her both hands crossed on his shoulders from behind, putting on him her weight in protest of his ignorance over her plea.

Gin did not care if Vermouth was the Boss' favorite agent, she was being annoying. And Gin knew it was her favorite pastime—bugging Gin during the times he was having his mind on alert.

"Must I remind you what we were renting this room for?"

This time, Vermouth had no intention to be less than suggestive. While she knew she rented the room with the purpose of keeping a close watch in case anything went wrong, she also knew it wasn't her sole purpose. In fact, Vermouth didn't care too much about the mission; whether it was Bourbon executing the mission well done or Rye having to make the kill, both conditions are beneficial for her own objective. Even if the target's heart was still beating by the time the whole operates switch their concern to the next mission, it would yield no remorse for Vermouth except that she would have her suspicion confirmed. And when she heard Rye was unable to perform in this mission, she thought she could always use the time to dig the answer to her question deeper. Whatever happened, it was on her favor.

But having Gin in the same room with her had always been a rather stimulating circumstance for her. And perhaps, for him too.

"To keep an eye on the mission," Gin said firmly in annoyance, without even shifting the balls of his eyes from the ill-fated man on his screen.

Vermouth made a swift move and landed her bare right foot on Gin's leg, climbing it over and making herself seated on the desk just beside the screen that had been Gin's whole interest.

That interest was soon tempted by the woman who started to place her feet comfortably; one, with leg bent, on the desk, and the other, with so much philandering intended, above his right femoral joint. He began inspecting the sheer violet negligee she was wearing, the tip of her lips with what she made a constant call for his being, the wet, platinum strands of her hair coming out from her towel-wrapped head...

From whichever point he was viewing, her beauty was undeniable.

She made a swift move and stole the cigarette in Gin's hand, taking it to her own lips and filled her lung with an ample of tobacco smoke. She exhaled slowly in satisfaction above Gin's head. "Don't ever say, _this afternoon_ was enough, 'cause we both know it _wasn't_,"

Gin was a man; a vigor man. Women were not his favorite method of entertainment, but they sure did serve the mean. He realized he was lucky he was most probably one of Vermouth's favorite methods of entertainment, but for him, Vermouth wasn't even his preference. During his lifetime he knew that there were not many things that can't be solved with guns. But he _did_ realize that the few things did exist. The one example that crossed his mind was how his _one preference_ would never have even the slightest desire to let him please her the way he pleased Vermouth.

He took the cigarette from Vermouth's fingers—before she had the chance to smoke it for the second time—and put it out in the ash tray by the screen; pushing and grinding it in hopes to shut the fire on the cherry out. Vermouth smirked in glee, shoving her head into Gin's direction, while he was welcoming it by letting the clasp of his lips loose.

It took one second for Gin to let himself loose his focus on the man under his surveillance. But unbeknownst to him, it take _less_ than one second for the screen in front of him to dexterously crash.

Vermouth's pout hadn't even collided with his panting, but the next thing Gin knew, his target had _magically_ disappeared.

* * *

**Next Chapter: Bourbon's Mission!**

**Stay tuned and do leave reviews :}**


	3. Midnight Supper

**First of all, this might be a bit too late, but I want to thank every each of you who spared your time to read, enjoy and even go as far as to review my writings; I wouldn't be writing if it weren't for you guys (and yes, I'm looking at you Ai-chan, marutaro, darkoceansky, yomaxcis, sleeperx , coffeelover98 and everyone else). I hope you enjoy my upcoming works and keep feeding me inputs to better-tailor my writings.**

**Second of all, as the title tells, this time the chapter will cover mostly about the titular agent and his mission, and unlike usual, there might not be any hint about 'our' favorite pairing. Booyah, I know. But I****, albeit far from good at it, ****too am a sucker for crime fictions so yeah I just had to ._. Also, I was intending to post two chapters at the same time, but since I'll be having exams all around next week I'm forced to keep my cool. Anyways, it only means I have plenty time to make the most of it (and you have my words that the next chapter would be important for the plot) so I digress.**

**Finally, I hope you enjoy this chapter although it's far from perfect. Happy reading (and reviewing) =]**

* * *

"Good evening. I have a bouquet of flowers to deliver to Ginzo-sama in suite 404," the delivery man politely said to the security officer, handling to him the receipt of the mentioned bouquet. It was almost midnight, but the security officer broke his suspicion after learning that the flower was to be received exactly at midnight for birthday surprise purposes—at least that was written in the card. After the metal detector hovered over him and the bouquet blinked green, the man was let in. He thanked the security officer and walked inside. That routine scrutiny was something to be expected of—the newspaper agency had been known to have radically blown up the shadiest forms of crime, more often than not formerly veiled under the wings of fraudulent government bodies, and jailed more than dozens of crooks out of public demand. It was a common secret that the company had a long list of enemies that would be more than delighted to see it crumbling, hence its security.

The delivery man walked down the halls. _The building sure was less busy than usual_, he thought.

'_Happy Birthday, Japan's Morning Sun!_'

It was the text on the big billboard his sight bumped into, and lied behind it was the room he was looking for.

And no, it was not suite 404.

It was a toilet, and the delivery man had been holding out for awhile. He opened the door and thanking his luck that no one else was there. Still with the bouquet of flowers in his hand, he went into one of the stalls.

But of course, it wasn't _merely_ a bouquet of flowers. And he wasn't _merely_ a delivery man. Taking off his silicon mask, he revealed his true face; a fine-looking man around his quarter-centuries, his most remarkable feature being his sun-kissed, summery skin and his hair a pale shade of gold. From the bouquet, he took a bundle of tools wrapped in a black knit cover, and stripped it slowly; making no sound in the process. Disclosed inside were two card sized remote controls, a pair of gloves, and not less importantly, chewing gum of his favorite flavor. He put the remote controls into his trousers pocket, wore the gloves, and stripped the gum—putting one beneath his teeth.

The man under the working name Bourbon then climbed up on the lavatory cover, turning his front body against the wall it was attached to, and opened up the small window above it. Already stuck beneath its frame was a fishing pole string that he had affixed earlier this day, connecting his grip with an object that had lingered outside beneath the bushes. He pulled the string slowly, and by its edge, retrieved yet another bundle; this one wrapped in military patterned fabric.

With an animated air he started opening the bundle. There were two objects resembling vintage phones—if they weren't ones—, one Vertec Beretta 92, an SWR Octane 45 suppressor, and plastic wrap complete with complementary knotting bands. He took one of the vintage phone look-alike, and aligned it with the remote control. It was probably some sort of magic that both the remote control and the phone then blinked red. He put it inside his jacket inner compartment, did the same thing with the other pair of objects, and put the latter one inside the pre-emptied toilet's flush tank. He attached the silencer to the gun, loaded it, wrapped it in the knotted plastic wrap, and enclosed it in the other side of his jacket's inner compartment.

_Part one done_. The operative grabbed the black knit wrapper—turned out to be a ski mask—, folded it into a knit cap, and put it on his head; covering most of his hair. He pushed the flush in the closet, and got out of the stalls. Under the decorative fern beside the sink, he grabbed an ID card—which someone has lost earlier in the morning during the course of his collision with the agent—and stuck it to his chest pocket. As he got out of the bathroom, the flowers met their end in the trash bin.

The mission was halfway done, and so far, it was done well.

The 8th floor of the building, where Bourbon was then three steps away from, was where the murder would be carried out. And it was suite 804, Bourbon's destination of the day, instead of suite 404, where Keiichiru Sakamoto, instead of Ginzo-sama, was residing. Keiichiru was a senior journalist behind the newspaper's critically famed rubric, _Himitsu_, where numerous crimes in Japan—including corrupt governments, conspiracy theories, and criminal syndicates even the most competent law enforcers could not seize—were all dissected for the public to roughly consume.

It was 11.44 p.m, and Bourbon was creeping in front of Keiichiru's room, eavesdropping to check if the target was clear. The room was quiet; let alone a voice, the only audible sound was the sheer clicking sound of the keyboard. Some ten minutes later the clicking ceased and got substituted with a crackling sound of crepitating bones and a loud, big yawn.

_Perfect_. Bourbon thought it was _perfect_. His target was consciously-debilitated. This was rather an easy money.

He tapped his earpiece, intentionally twice, but halted after the first tap. Instead, he took it off, and put it in his pocket. He just remembered that there was no one he needed to confirm to. That day was a culmination of a lifetime work, the day when he was trusted with a solo mission by the organization. That being said; no one _should_ be there to monitor him and tell him to do things. He wasn't even provided with back-up allies, but rather than feeling worried, he liked that fact instead. He liked that fact so much until he realized that he was about to kill someone.

An innocent civilian.

All of a sudden, a surge of horrendous disgust emerged within him. He was _not_ a murderer; he _won't _be a murderer. At the same time, he couldn't help but yearn for all these to end. For all these killing streaks he had to commit. For all the time he became someone he was not, everything he shouldn't have been. He told himself that this was not the right time to turn all saint, he told himself that this would be the last; this _had_ to be the last.

Along a deep sigh, he held the door knob, pulled it slowly, and gave into its door surround a supple yet ample push.

"_Hello? Azusa-chan? It's me, __tou-__san. Happy birthday, __Azusa-chan__!__"_

Keiichiru Sakamoto, 54, was a senior journalist of Japan's Morning Sun. He was also a husband, and a loving father of two. That exact second past midnight, his beloved daughter turned 21, and he was intending to congratulate her, although the closest thing he could manage to reach was her voice-mail. In reality, Azusa would always complain to her father how he should retire or find a work that didn't require much dedication, which she referred to the night shifts. Little did she know that his father's dedication required much more than just staying awake late night.

And little did the father know that it was death who just walked in to his room.

Well, it _supposed_ to be.

Bourbon was stiffened. He had his loaded gun on his hand, trigger on his finger, but the heart to kill a blameless girl's father? He knew very well that if there was anything he could change about his past, it would have been the absence of his parents. If there was _anything_ he learned from life, it would have been how hard it was growing with none.

He slipped into the shadow of lockers stacks by the door. He _was_ going to finish his mission, but he spared his conscience a deed to let the man finish whatever it was he needed to tell his daughter.

"_Listen, Azusa-chan_," the man continued, still unaware of the imminent danger as he was looking out of the window opposite from the Bourbon's entrance. "_A big girl now, you are! I know very well how benevolently you take care of yourself, your kaa-san, your nii-san, even better than I do. That's why, I always trust them to you. I know, it wasn't fair, isn't it? I was the one who was supposed to take care of you all..._

"_But, Azusa-chan, will you continue to take care of them? Will you promise me, first, to be the happiest woman you always appear to be, like the way you made me the happiest daddy on earth for having you around, and second, to be there when your kaa-san needs you, to lend a hand when your nii-san ought so? Oh dear, Azusa-chan. It's your birthday and instead of present I brought you obligations..._"

Tears was running down his face, as if he could see from the back of his head the rim of the gun that had been aimed at him for awhile now, bulging shadily amidst the brinks of paper in the locker stacks.

Bourbon was on his quavering edge of sanity. The detective wondered if it was true what people say, how the angel of death would whisper into your very ears when you were to meet her.

But he was determined to finish him; he had made up his mind, and he would fare any distance he ought to go to scrap this chain of despair. One more word, and Keiichiru Sakamoto would be sent off for good.

"_Azusa-chan..."_

Steady now. Just one last sentence and he would fire.

"_...I, too, need to tell you something that I might have been hiding from the rest of you all these years..."_

In 3...

"_...About what I've come so far into revealing, about what I've been pouring even the last drop of my blood for..._"

2... 1... _What the hell is it old man?!_

"..._It was_..."

**PFT!**

There, he had it. Silence, and with it, a change of color on Keiichiru Sakamoto's formerly white shirt. First second, faint gingery dots, third second, specks of cherry, seventh second, blotches. The next minute, the majority of his left back's white shirt had turned a dark shade of crimson.

The phone he was holding with his left hand now lying on the floor, dropped a few moments ago. The next thing hitting the floor was the journalist's right knee, and the rest of his body, on a supine position, over the stream of a dark red liquid.

The target was successfully executed; the mission was accomplished. All that's left to do was for the executor to sabotage the information leakage, flee from the ground zero, and walk away with victorious grin.

Except that he could not.

Bourbon's eyes gaped as wide as an umbrella under the rain; his pupils dilated. His heart—after its one beat skipped—raced with an adrenaline rush so intense it was loud. The crowding impulses in his head jammed in anger; grave anger. The plastic-encapsulated Vertec Berreta 92, which rim aimed straight at where the target was standing, were shaking; and it wasn't because it felt guilty for having killed a man.

In fact, it hadn't.

Amidst the inner mayhem, he sensed a sound—if not sound wave—in his pocket. With a daunting horror, he plugged it in his right ear. An indistinct, almost whispering voice flooded through Bourbon's ear canal to his tympanic membrane and struck to his brain in utter terror.

**"****_You're slow, Bourbon._****"**


	4. Continuum

**Illusion**

It was some shy hours past midnight, the sky was painted in deep layers of purple. Tokyo was sound asleep, and solitude was all it owned. For some people though, sleeping was a luxury they couldn't afford. And instead of being a sultry night of an aptly summer day, these violet hours could be cold. So cold.

The altitude, perhaps. Astood on the rooftop of a thirteen-leveled building was a man enslaved to the vigilance of the moon; on his right palm was the barrel of a device of menace, on his left its trigger, and on his telescopic wince was an ill-fated man he just sent afloat on his own blood. A second later, another man over the distance jumped over the dead body onto the freshly, and faintly, holed window glass, looking up and about in the quest of catching the marksman's shadows, only to succeed and put on a manner so taut his eyes could burst out anytime. Along a brief, nonchalant sneer, the sharpshooter put away the earpiece he used to lure the cited horror of his self-acclaimed contender's into his pocket, and looked away for good. He foresaw no merits any other way.

Exactly one minute later, morning came early when inferno erupted on the very building he just sent a man to his last catch of breath. After a second blast gushed in the parking lot, he knew it was a signal for him to clear. He grabbed a parachute sling bag he readied beside him and packed his personal Arctic Warfare neatly inside it. Not before he received a message from a comrade of his did he know where he would head to.

'_724. See you real soon. V._'

He closed the clasp of his phone and made a sortie from the rooftop, climbing down the stairs to the seventh floor. In front of room number twenty four, having donned a bellhop costume with his long hair tucked in the cap for awhile now, he knocked twice in rhythm and articulated the words he loathed for having to say. "_Room service_,"

The room occupant did seem to have been expecting his coming as it took no more than a blink of an eye for the door to open, but in truth, it was nothing more than his veiled petulance that welcomed him.

"You're in," The higher-ranking operate announced coldly quite the fact they had both acknowledged. Just before he launched a wily retort, another voice came from the other side of the room, this time it was a female's. "Congratulations, Rye. You could really come in handy,"

Vermouth's ever captivating sweet nothings were fated to doom men into a blight of unrequited desire, true, but what rather bugged Rye's mind was that he thought it didn't apply to Gin, while how he witnessed her current stance suggested the otherwise.

Then he could hear his brain laughed at its own doing. Whatever did posses him into thinking of such a trivial matter?

Vermouth came forward to him, pulled herself closer enough to aim her right palm into the back of his neck. He noticed Gin's eyes were tailing her hand, but to his chagrin, not a hint of merriment was fashioned as it would have if it was _someone else_ instead of Vermouth involved.

In a swift nimbleness he tackled Vermouth's hand before it landed on his surface.

"What you're looking for is right here,"

He opened his right palm to reveal a sound tracker put earlier on the costume collar for the mission. Of course, he knew it was there even before he dressed up. "Although I agree trust isn't something to generously dispense nowadays, I would insist disputing over this senseless scrutiny,"

The woman with the debt of explanation smirked. "Don't take it personally. The surveillance monitor didn't work at all throughout the night, so we had to find another way to get a grip on the situation. Thankfully, you did decide to come with your own gun since the M4 is still erring. So we thought, why don't we just make _you_ a monitor and slip it to your costume before you wore it? At least we got to know who made the shot."

Rye moved no muscles, shifted no air.

"So," she continued. "You free this Friday night?" Vermouth's coaxing yielded perplexed curves on Rye's lips, signaling an approval for the date. _So it's three days away_, he thought.

"You'll be receiving the details of the meeting anytime soon, so you'd better keep your phone close all right. Plus, _that person_ hath bestowed upon you the greatest virtue of the organization's staff welfare program. Have a great day off, silver bullet."

As surprised was he to note the words day and off combined, Rye was at least a little bit startled hearing the last two utterances Vermouth hissed into his ears. It was the first time he was attributed with such provenance.

"Until Friday, then," Throwing a slight leer, Rye began to make his way out from the room.

"Say, Rye." Gin, having been rather mute throughout the tryst, halted his personally disfavored underling's retreat when his was already half a step outside.

"...Suppose you know anything about the screwed up monitor..."

Rye took a moment of silence. He recognized fully the air of suspicion, sharply aimed by a man he had always blotted with antipathy. Another thing he exactly knew was what the answer to this was, and more importantly, what his answer was going to be.

"I'll find out."

* * *

**Home**

Akai Shuichi found himself against the steering wheel of his Chevy that early morning, helming the semi truck south. As always, cigarette smoke was fuming out from his open left window. As always, the man was deep in thought.

A part of his head was overjoyed for making his current standing a step away into successfully confiscating one of the most troublesome tasks he was ever assigned for. Another part understood completely how the slightest error done could obliterate the whole three years of his monumental toils. Either it was one way or another, he realized that more than one lives were hanging on a slim thread of survival due to his actions during the three years span hustle, each of which he would sacrifice himself to save.

He put out the fire on his cigarette and parked his car at a seemingly random parking slot, getting out of it and made a long march throughout the street blocks. A moment later, he found himself standing in front of a big, bronzy square building in Minato, Tokyo.

"If it isn't Akai-san! The rest of the crew already awaits you in Lance Hall, please come in."

The US embassy had been a home to FBI meetings for the past eight months, since Gerry Hendley, a close colleague of James Black, the agents' supervisor, and an ex sleeper in Japan himself before his career shift, rose to ambassadorship. Of course, Hendley's share of role was nothing more than providing a safe, secured, and secluded shelter; a responsibility he held for the entire US citizen in Japan. During that past eight months, a number of the staff had made acquaintances with that portion of undercover agents the bureau had slipped throughout the nation.

"Thank you, _Miss_," He had to admit he was never good at remembering names of friendly faces.

As he headed towards the hall, he inspected each and every figure passing his sight; a routine he naturally developed living a discrete life. There weren't many people yet since it was early, only several staffs whose face he was familiar of. He opened the hall door as he arrived shortly afterwards.

"Agent Akai! _You_ _did_ _it_!"

He saw a swarm of agents, formerly seated on the chairs around the round table, rising up and ambushed him with venerating embraces. He stood set, replying his underlings' adoration with a faint, mirthless smile. "I would like to hear reports on the victim."

"Yessir. On August 21st 5.34 p.m the victim, Keiichiru Sakamoto, journalist of Japan Morning Sun's Himitsu, finally agreed to comply with the witness program shortly before I sent you the ping. Team moved soon afterwards; at 6.42 Agent Caruso successfully hijacked all the surveillance cameras in the building, including the one linked with enemy's surveillance, thus creating a window for Agent Yokai to infiltrate the building to brief the victim and supply him with fake blood and bulletproof alloy which serve as your target later on. At 8.01 when that was done, Agent Driscoll proceeded to eradicate any data in danger of exposure to the enemy and additionally finished setting up an escape for the victim. At 9.34, operation was put on wait. At 11.31, convict under code name Bourbon infiltrated the building and in 12.33 was on clear position to execute. You made the shot at 1.12. At 1.19 victim was evacuated with multiple minor burnt injuries from the explosion and now under the care of recovery team and investigation team for questioning. Victim is scheduled for his flight to Switzerland on Friday evening. Associates in Switzerland have confirmed their assistance. Operation accomplished. End of report." The agent finished his long report, handing Shuichi a stack of paper he just reviewed.

Done skimming the report, Shuichi's glance turned to that specific subordinate of his, the one who had lately been the closest depiction of a confidant to him, considering the lone wolf mannerism he had always been sporting.

The brawny man understood the call and approached him, ready to receive the classified notice from his superior.

"Camel," he opened his speech. "The crows were wondering about their surveillance cut,"

Camel was startled. He wondered if the news he just heard was a fatal blow. Observing his aide's terrorized air, Shuichi made amends by citing what occurred after he offered Gin to investigate it. "Fret not. We had a coincidental help from our _rotten_ colleague. Her suggestion was that Bourbon needed to make sure he was completely on his own, the guy being so self-satisfied. Thankfully, it seemed believable enough."

The lesser ranked agent gasped in relief. "We will take that consideration into account next time, Akai-san. I am truly regretful for the unsound judgment I made. Hadn't you been under their surveillance you would have commanded us a better tactic than mine was."

Shuichi patted Camel on the back before turning to the rest of the audiences. "You have done exceptionally remarkable, Camel. Thank you for your hard work."

"Gentlemen, our victory is near. We have worked out our latest drop of sweat, and this Friday it will be paid off. Be prepared; be aptly prepared, for after prevailing our final blitz, our next destination will be but one; _home_."

Wide smiles formed on the faces of the meeting attendees; eight FBI agents who had long been away from their families in the states. They might be men with no mercy when appointed to be so, but being human was all they were. The faces of their daughters, lovers, the taste of homemade dishes, and the touch of dignity welcoming them, all surrounded their minds when their leader uttered a word so melodious they were aching for having been reminded of the place they had been longing to be: home.

Amidst the eager positivism of his team, Akai Shuichi, the leader of the operation, retreated into seclusion. He raided the pocket of his jacket and took out the pack of cigarettes deposited inside it. Soon the faint fire from his lighter reached out to the tip of the last stick in the pack. He clasped its tip in-between his lips, inhaling and exhaling it slowly in an agonizing manner.

The fire hadn't even reached the half of the stick when he decided to put it out all of a sudden. He slurred his hands in his trousers pockets, and looked out to the window. When his gaze returned, his left hand was already holding his phone before his eyes. He navigated through his contact list, an act of redundancy since the one person he had in mind had a number he could perfectly spell. Before long, his thumb petrified when he realized the highlight was a click away from the name he had been expecting. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath as an attempt to clear his mind from the bludgeoning baggage he had burdened himself with. Albeit being nowhere near ready, he decided to open his eyes and face her name.

'宮野明美'

* * *

**Devil's Whisper**

Earlier that day—if 4 a.m served fairly as one—Vermouth was busy on the monitor her endeared partner had left unattended, her fingers feverishly dabbling on the keyboard in the pursuit of her own objective. She can't hide her excitement; not after the mission she assumed to have been postponed astonishingly turned up on exactly the opposite fashion. She was on the brim of triumph, and there left only one thing for her to prove.

And there it was, on the monitor, crystal clear, what she had been expecting for; the beating pulse of a specific person, hearty and vigorous, as opposed to popular belief, transmitted from a pulse tracker she foxly set up on him way earlier.

She closed the screen; uniting it with the keyboard, and molded her face into a sly elation. It was the second time she witnessed the pulse of a dead man, and for her to get a good grasp of what had been going on? It was _more _than_ enough_.

In her palm was a ticket with which she was sending someone _home_.

* * *

**I wasn't sure if this was to be expected, I think the previous chapter might be a little bit ambiguous about who made the kill? Anyway, I kind of had it updated to make it a little less confusing. Also, did you spot Gosho's fake death plot in this chapter? Sorry for the lack of novelty, but I need to hint at how an FBI agent should be familiar with this kind of trickery.**

**Credits to ****my professors ****and **to your prayers for making the exams exceptionally doable *wink*

**Replies:**

**Darkoceansky: hahahah thank you thank you, can't really distinguish between action/thriller/suspense/crime(when any was involved) here, so yeah anything would do XP**

**Ai-chan: IKR! Chiba love story vs Bourbon's dilemmas, place your bet. Glad to have you around xx**

**Dimas: Lolzz I just gave you a 2500-words-long answer to that**

**Marutaro: BETCHA! And so are they mine! Obviously gonna ramble about their 'jiken' in no time *wink* *wink***

**Enji89: thank you! I hope you like this chapter :)**

**And to all guests and everyone else, thank you for the supports! Always happy to receive your inputs here. Do anticipate the upcoming last chapter of the story, starring Bourbon, Vermouth, aaand-I know, I miss her too-Sherry. Stick around ;)**


	5. Dawn Falls

**Melancholia**

Traffic had just awoken in Chūō City's main road. Cars, trains, footsteps rushes and the small chattering that echoed, all humming in a monotonous yet solid harmony. Reigning on its summer throne was the majestic sun, blessing its verve-granting shimmers over the entire luckier side of planet earth.

The solar system was ever so wise, wasn't it? As for every portion of darkness, it was light that followed.

And wasn't dawn so lenient? How it had always been a loyal aide of earth and its inhabitants, bringing before their eyes the light of faith soon as they awakened from a loom of obscurity. Each day, every day, a force beyond mankind's grasp was in charge of carrying their sorrows away, exchanging it with an array of hope. Each day, every day, someone was going to wake up from his nightmare, smile back at the sun on relief of its mere surrealism, and say to himself, '_Today is going to be a good day!_'

To think how it was a constant, daily based piece of good fortune that escorted humans to a potential best day of their lives, one should greet each morning with nothing less than a bliss...

...Or _shouldn't they_?

"_Irasshaimase!_"

The greeting was voiced in such a joyful clamor, but not the faintest sound wave seemed to manage its way into the addressed beneficiary's acoustical organs. Instead, he was dragging his feet in a manner almost too disinclined, with eyes looking as if life had escaped them. The eyes' complimentary darkened bags also confirmed his worrisome well-being, not to mention his clothes rather less than properly in one piece. Don't get it wrong; he _was_ physically attractive, at least for that waitress who welcomed him. But his state? Clearly unlike someone who had been having enough sleep—nor a good day in general. The waitress looked at her coworker over the counter, trying to figure if he shared the same judgment about their first customer of the day. The partner sheepishly shrugged in reply. As he handled the menu book to the waitress, he uttered his deduction. "Probably just another drunkard on his hangover?"

_Possible_. With a concerned air, the waitress stepped towards the table his guest seated himself; the four-people sofa compartment deep rooted on the farthest corner of the kissaten.

"Ohayou gozaimasu, would you like to order now, uhm, _sir_?" Her choice of honorific was based on the guest's light hair tone, as she now had a better vision of it while putting the menu onto the table. In perfect congruence to her concern of the man, though, no words were coming out from his mouth.

"Uh, all right. Just call me if you have decided what to order okay? I'll be right by the counter," she said, intending to end the awkwardness.

_The guy wasn't on hangover_, she thought. She had been working there for quite awhile, and she could definitely identify drunkards over any other kinds of visitors. And she knew this guy hadn't been having any recent arguments with his liver. He just seemed to have a boatload of baggage in his mind.

"Sumimasen,"

She was already several steps away when he _finally _confirmed that a vocal cord did rest somewhere around his throat. She turned back and smiled at him, making her way back to the table in a little relief. "So, what would you like to order?"

"English breakfast... you have them, don't you?"

It was not that they don't have it in their menu, but she thought he was going to order something stronger than just... tea. He did seem to need some ample ventis of Americano. "Sure. Anything else to go with that? Full breakfast, perhaps?"

"Maybe later. But for now..." he returned the menu book to the waitress, and for the first time, he looked up at her and threw a smile. "...that's all. Thank you."

See, she was right about him being rather handsome!

Two hours later, the waitress and her partner began worrying of their having to shoo the man away from his seat should a group of more than two guests made an entrance to the cafe. The guest wasn't helping himself either as he hadn't ordered anything else although his cup was already empty. Also, it wasn't like he was up to anything, except, well, staring emptily at the window across his table. By the winding hours, the seats had almost been full, and if any guests popped in then...

"Irasshaimase!" _Talking about the devil_.

"Ohaiyou gozaimasu, ma'am. How many people are coming with you?" The waitress asked, partly hoping she was alone.

The woman, in an ever so charming smile, apparently granted that hope after catching a glimpse inside the place. She raised her hand and pointed to a specific corner of the kissaten. "There, I'm with that man,"

* * *

"_How in the world_ _do you know I was here_?"

Vermouth smirked slyly. "Is there anything in _that_ world that I _don't_ know?"

Bourbon sighed. The last thing he wanted to face that day was any encounter with the rest of the organization. Heck—even thinking of the word 'organization' itself could send back the tea he just sipped out of his stomach.

"Look, I know it didn't turn out that good," Vermouth hissed, ensuring their conversation end up nowhere else but the tunnels of their ears. "But I would say the data transmitting error was out of your grasp. I never trusted that good for nothing research and development department myself."

"That junk." The mention of such department disturbed a fraction of him, yet he replied in agreement as he recalled the vintage phone-like object earlier. "I wonder why I would go with that ridiculous tool. I would've gained priceless information about the source of leakage had they trusted my good old method than relying on some plastic crap looking poorer than a broken radio."

Vermouth smiled. "And the goddess of fortune was as unkind to you as she is to me. If you weren't forced to trigger the detonator so soon just because it had to go all plan B, if _someone in particular_ hadn't sabotaged your target, you wouldn't have to..."

"_ENOUGH_, Vermouth."

Vermouth was a trickster, an ace one. When she realized it was Bourbon's despair she was talking to, she knew things were going as she planned. "My bad, Bourbon. Do pardon my sassy mouth."

It took awhile for Bourbon to reconcile with his senses. "It wasn't only because I need to cover up for the bullet holes. The security system... apparently they were stronger than we assumed. I was on the target's screen; he saw me lurking about his suite. We had the surveillance room under control, but seems like there was another transmittance we weren't aware of that was sent directly to his monitor."

"So, he knew you were going to finish him?"

"Not sure. It would be impossible for him to recognize I was about to kill him, but for whatever reason, he let me in. However, if he _did _recognize, it _is_ possible that he had been fed up having his life on the line, too, and thought he might play along with fate."

Vermouth nodded in wonders. Her eyebrows rose in a quaint respect of the guy's judgment.

"Still, hadn't that bastard sabotaged my work, plan A would've been much feasible. The situation was perfect; a suicide was likely." The scene of the late target calling his daughter was replaying on his head.

"Right... considering you would have seized the hard disk that might contain a helpful of God-knows-what. But then again, as you said, we couldn't be sure that your shadows wouldn't be sent to the securities..."

"No. I had them under control. It wasn't the security that I was concerned about. If that foul mouthed, attention seeking newspaper had the surveillance broadcasted and perform a background check later on, I'm afraid even the Boss' face would be on the their front page in no time."

Vermouth chuckled. "As expected from our wonder boy, that's how considerate you are." Her coffee arrived closely after, and following a small sip of it, she continued her propaganda. "At least you managed to delete all they had about us, although the erratic hacking device left us no clues about its sources. Still, I feel like your talent had just gone wasted."

Bourbon groaned once again, recalling the perfect credit that he should have scored eventually become someone else's. That someone else, he couldn't despise more.

"That guy, Rye. You both don't have some sort of personal vendettas against each other, are you?"

He recalled his taunt much earlier in the day through the earpiece. He recalled the revolting smirk he stamped on his losing. He recalled his bullet digging through the heart of an innocent man on his last call with his daughter. He recalled that specific day in the history of their much reviled encounters. And then, he recalled _him_.

"Tell me you aren't sick with the way he treats the rest of us like a mindless trash, Vermouth." He dodged.

Vermouth grinned. "The way I see it, you might have forgotten how Gin was exceptionally kind-hearted and charitable towards the rest of us. Don't you think it's just the way we treat each other? It's certainly our unique way of showcasing affections..."

Although Bourbon was also taking in consideration that Rye was relatively new at all in the organization, he was silently amused. What Vermouth said couldn't get truer.

"Anyway, please don't elaborate. Everyone deserves their own share of secrets." Vermouth winked. "As of the reason how our target was welcoming his apparent death, and the reason why it _had_ to be your dear friend instead of you who shot him, may I give my own deduction?"

The detective raised his eyebrows.

"Say, Bourbon, _have you ever seen the beating heart of a dead man_?"

Realizing the peaking curiosity, Vermouth took out from her pocket a skin-colored paper-thin object the dimension of a round battery, and put it beside Bourbon's cup already lacking on the recently refilled tea. "A tracker? What of it?"

Vermouth shook her head. "Not just a common tracker," She took it again and grabbed Bourbon's left hand, sticking the tracker over the radial artery in his wrist. "It tracks your pulses. An old friend of mine in the research department accidentally dropped a pair of them during our last mission together. I was meaning to try it out myself before I return it to her later,"

Bourbon curled his eyebrows on the sign of cluelessness. A moment later, an absurd idea—far, far away beyond senses—hit him, triggering the maximum dilatation of his pupils.

Vermouth thanked the guy's quick wit. "Yesterday morning, I took a trip down your ground zero. I didn't like its interior..."

Bourbon was again on his verge of sanity. "On your point, Vermouth!"

She giggled in amusement. "...I did, though, make friends with one of its inhabitants. Keiichiru something? Yeah, I think that's his name." She teased further.

"...We even made a _handshake_."

Bourbon couldn't believe his own mind. He was always a reasonable man, and right at that moment, there was a list the length of all Chūō's main roads combined to rebut his deduction, but that time—only that time—he was hoping that such incongruous idea he had was the truth indeed.

Drilling to his wide open eyes was Vermouth's sharper than a dagger stare, in approval of his wild ideas. She knew Bourbon was intelligent enough to assemble these puzzle pieces of teases. "Yes, Bourbon. It _is_ what it _is_. And _we_ have an _agenda_ to follow."

The solar system was ever so wise, wasn't it? As for every portion of darkness, it was light that followed. And to think how it was a constant, daily based piece of good fortune that escorted humans to a potential best day of their lives, one _should_ have greeted each morning with _nothing less_ than a bliss.

Several minutes later that morning, conscience, courage, and fortitude had returned to Bourbon's mind. His widened eyes shrank, and his gasps flew back in rhythm. He sipped the last of his tea away, closed his eyes and smiled to his newly established partner.

"To think how you detested the department that tracker was developed by... they're not that useless apparently, are they?" He scrapped the tracker off his wrist and toyed with it. The drumming beats of his heart would have burst it off had it been activated. "Tell me, why in the first place would you reckon to fare this much distance?"

Vermouth answered his question with her signature sly grin. "I've told you, haven't I?" She snatched the tracker from his hand, and playfully flipping it with much amusement, as mirrored in her gleaming eyes.

"I want to give a proper_ farewell present_ to that bright little _friend_ of mine down our labs before I return to the States."

* * *

**A Feint Intervention**

"_BREAKING NEWS. A chain of explosions had occurred this midnight at Japan Morning Sun headquarter in Chiyoda, Tokyo. The first explosion, described by eyewitnesses as loud and fiery coming from the upper level of the building, happened at around 1.15, a second one followed shortly. Apparent death was rumored but denied by management. Hiroshi Katsuo, CEO, declined there had been any correlation between the claimed accident to any threats regarding their journalism activities. '_We were too tied up in the birthday celebration that night in the stadium, and unfortunately...'_"_

_BEEP_. The television was shut down before said Hiroshi Katsuo could explain his defense. Its former watcher, seated on a stool away from the television, put the remote control down the table, grabbed what seemed to be a recorder, and raised up from her former throne.

She walked towards the stacks of cages in which rattling noises were heard an hour in prior—not that any of it was heard anymore.

"Report of Project, code APTX4868. August 22nd, 07.00 a.m, an hour after administration of drug. Rat 1 is found dead, no traces of drugs. Rat 2 is found dead, no traces of drugs. Rat 3 is found dead, no traces of drugs. Rat 4 is found dead, no traces of drugs. Rat 5 is found... alive. Initiating assessment."

The scientist took out a handful of instruments and started assessing her years long playmate. "Assessment of general condition: borderline poor. Subject shows mild conscience compromise. Response to light: positive. Sensoric functions: decreased. Motoric functions: decreased. Traces of drugs..." she spooled out the rat's bodily fluid and titered it to a plate-like apparatus. "...positive at 50%. Half-life deviation rate at 100%. End of assessment. Course of actions: proceed to DNA investigation, proceed to thirty minutes interval observation, proceed to dissections of dead subjects. August 22nd, 07.09 a.m. Miyano Shiho, end of report."

It had been her daily breakfast, a routine she had been performing for the last three years or more, since her return to Japan. She wasn't sure herself why she hadn't got enough of it; perhaps it was her passion for science, perhaps it was that she knew no life any other way.

On a positive note, a relatively major development of her current project was observed that very morning. She got to fill some reports the operational standard required. Naturally, it also dictated her to report to the higher ups, but, she thought, that could wait. Maybe after finishing the reports, or maybe later then. The thought of contacting _them_ did not seem to be that of a fanciful idea in such a peaceful morning.

She jumped into the chair in front of her computer, dancing her fingers away on the keyboard as her other hand grabbed the cup of coffee just by its right. The drug's smallest development was enough to send her on a pleasant mood. She was having this idea, that maybe on the conclusion of the research, she could finally move out from the organization and start a new life. Perhaps moving in with her sister, perhaps going back to college and pursue a proper career... whatever it was, she couldn't quite wait for it.

And despite being deep swimming in her wild wonders, she still felt disrupted when a window popping up out of the blue on her screen intervened the report progress.

_A pulse tracker locator_? She didn't remember having anyone on monitor. She checked the cabinet where the trackers were supposed to be stored, and closed it on conclusion that the collection was intact. She decided to click on the window to get a grasp of this seemingly error.

Last app.: 08/22; 01.18 a.m; 1-7-1 Otemachi Chiyoda [show map]

Target code: CML21083 Keiichiru S. Stat: TERMINATED 01.13 a.m

There were three things that bothered Sherry's mind about this; first was how she felt recently familiar with the address, second was how she didn't think it was possible how a target terminated at 01.13 a.m could send a pulse strong enough to transmit through the tracker five minutes later, and third _how did the tracker even get there_?

With a mind no less than disturbed, she crawled into the organization database; trying her luck on figuring out the chary conundrum. She found herself stumbled upon her pursuit as her authorization level could not break through the further query she requested: Agent on duty.

That was when her phone, laying rather conveniently several inches away from her hand, presented itself as a rather enticing means of contrivance.

"_Hello. Yes, it's me. Busy? Come to the lab. I've got developments need reporting. Yes... See you._"

_**To be continued in an upcoming story**_

* * *

**Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoy this ****final**** chapter (and the rest of the story too).**

**Don't forget to leave reviews and do come back for the next stories xx**

**P.s.: **

**Maru: **I kinda think file 898 was in fact more enjoyable than 899. Shuichi factor, m'suppose XD

**Ai-chan: **Hope them exams were done and done well! The stream of tests is a fast-pacing, heart-wrencing and head-quaking one innit :| (I'm gonna have yet another one this Thursday x_x)

**All readers: ****_Can you guess whom Sherry was calling? Gimme names! :D_**


End file.
